Now, she realized with a jolt, someday might never come. She might never again see him nattering about the Norwegian deli like an ancient Viking, wreaking havoc with a cane for a sword. She might never hear his tragic tale of youthful infatuation or be able to help ease the pain of Romeo losing his Romeo. Was Hewitt really dead? The empty space where he had stood told her she needed to consider the possibility.
But, not now, not today.
A woman stood behind the counter, tapping a pen as if she had a store full of waiting customers. Martha acknowledged her with an embarrassed smile. She ordered two pounds of lutefisk to be shipped to Sault Ste. Marie and included a note that said simply, “Miss you, Daddy. Be well. Love, Marti.”
If the silver Audi had been parked behind her, she might not have noticed it. But it was across the street. When she pulled the Mini Cooper onto Market Street, the Audi made an illegal U-turn. That caught her attention. She stayed in the curbside lane for a couple of blocks. The Audi stayed well behind in the center lane.
Just past the Majestic Bay movie theatre, without signaling, she swung a quick right. Moments later, the Audi nosed around the corner. At the Ballard Public Library, its swooping roof of natural grasses now brown and dead, she made another right and then a quick left into the parking lot. The Audi motored past. The driver, a young man, never gave her a second glance.
Five minutes went by, but the Audi didn’t return. With a sigh, she released her grip on the wheel and flexed her fingers.
Back on Market Street, she cruised Ballard’s shopping district, no sign of the Audi in her rearview mirror. But, sure enough, at the light on 24th, the Audi came to a stop three cars behind. The light turned green and, at the last minute, she switched off her blinker and went straight through the intersection. One car turned, the second didn’t. Staying well back, the Audi followed behind her. Her hand went to the gearshift and, for a moment, she considered losing the tail in the backstreets and alleys of Ballard. But if she did, she would be no closer to discovering who was following her and why.
A better idea came to her.
Heading west past the Ballard Locks, Martha began to parallel the Ship Canal. The car directly behind her had turned off. The Audi hung well back as she passed the sailboats moored at Shilshole Bay Marina. Among them was her “yacht,” as Metcalf called her small fishing boat. The twenty-three-foot Grady White would be a yacht when her Mini Cooper became a limo. And then she was passing Little Coney’s and the boat ramp where yesterday they had pulled Hewitt’s empty van from the water. Back to the beginning, she thought. But where was the end?
At the stop sign, she drove straight through to the only entrance and exit to Golden Gardens Park. She had a little greeting prepared if he followed her in. But when the Audi came to the stop sign, it turned right onto Golden Gardens Drive and disappeared under the railroad trestle.
Okay, Plan B. If she was wrong, she would just be a little wet from the rain.
Martha parked, killed the engine and popped the back hatch. She dug out the tire iron. It was a small bar, maybe a foot long, but that worked to her advantage. She ran toward a pedestrian walkway that took her under the railroad tracks, and took the steps two at a time to the upper parking lot. It was empty, the access gate closed. About a hundred yards down the winding Golden Gardens Drive, right where she expected to see it, the silver Audi sat on the shoulder next to the railroad trestle. Facing away from her, it offered a perfect vantage point from which to watch the only exit to the park.
She slid the tire iron up her sleeve. Hugging the embankment, she walked steadily toward the Audi. All she needed was a little luck. He would be expecting her to appear in front of him.
She noted the license plate number and, two strides later, stood beside the driver’s window. A quick snap of the tire iron and the window shattered into his lap. She had the bar pressed against his throat and found the gun in his shoulder harness before he realized she was there. She tossed his gun over the car and into the bushes.
“Both hands on the wheel,” she ordered. He did as commanded. He was hardly more than a kid; spots of fresh acne dotted his chin. His red hair was cropped military style.
“Talk.” She eased her grip just enough to let a little air pass down his trachea.
“Officer Danny Kimble,” he croaked. “SPD. Detective Metcalf ordered me. To keep an eye on you. For your protection. After last night. Please. I can’t breathe.”
She eased the pressure on the tire iron. The kid gasped for air. Martha said, “ID. Show me your ID.”
He fumbled for his neck badge. Martha saw his picture, Seattle Police Department, and his name, Danny Kimble.
She released her hold. “Christ, why didn’t you guys say you’d be shadowing me?”
Kimble gulped for air. “Why didn’t . . . Metcalf tell me you were a psycho bitch.” He rubbed his neck. “Fuck . . . where’s my gun?”
“In the bushes. Find it yourself. And tell Metcalf I think his little game sucks. Better yet, get the fuck out of here. I’ll tell him myself.”
Throwing gravel, the Audi squealed around the corner under the railroad trestle and went right through the stop sign at Seaview Avenue without slowing down.
Back at the Mini Cooper, Martha replaced the tire iron and pulled a small blanket from the backseat. She toweled herself dry and grabbed her cell phone. Metcalf answered in two rings.
“It’s Martha Whitaker,” she said. “Danny and I just had a little chat. You can send me the bill for the broken window and his gun.”
“I’m sorry?” Metcalf said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t give me that shit, Metcalf. I’m really tired and my fuse is getting really short. Officer Danny Kimble, SPD. You assigned him to tail me. Well, he’s now on his way back to mother. Lucky I didn’t break his neck.”
Metcalf didn’t rise to her anger. “Ms. Whitaker, I don’t know any Officer Danny Kimble, and I don’t have anyone tailing you. What happened?”
Shit. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts; she had time to curse her own stupid gullibility. The kid had been in her grasp. Shit Shit Shit. He didn’t even have to break a sweat to get her to believe his cover. Because she wanted to believe it, because she wanted to believe Metcalf was a jerk and that he still considered her his number one suspect.
Like the lawyer that she was, she began relaying pertinent details to Metcalf in sequential order. Facts without emotions. Metcalf never once admonished her for her stupidity. He left that to her.
“I disarmed him . . .” she said, and paused. “The gun! Hang on, Detective.”
She tore out of the parking lot. Crashing over the speed bumps, she swung around the corner, punched it under the railroad trestle, and slammed to a stop on the gravel where the Audi had been. It took just seconds to find the gun.
With a soggy tissue from her jacket pocket, she grasped it by the barrel. She had no idea what type it was. She asked Metcalf, “How do you tell if the safety’s off?”
“Depends,” he replied. “But usually there’s a little switch on the left side, just above the trigger, where you can reach it with your thumb when holding the pistol. Up, the safety is on; down, it’s off.”
Martha gingerly flicked the switch up. The kid had been tailing her with the safety off.
“Okay, I’ve got his gun. Maybe forensics can find fingerprints or match it to the bullets from last night.” Then she described the young man, down to the acne on his chin, followed by the type of car and its license plate. Martha added the exact location so they could check for tire prints and broken glass.
“And Metcalf,” she continued, “the kid had a forged ID from the Seattle Police Department. He knew about the shooting last night, and he used your name without a moment’s hesitation. You haven’t even been assigned to the case for twenty-four hours. Someone’s getting information really fast. That might be a good place to start.”
“Yes, it would be,” Metcalf’s tone grew more somber. �
�But right now I have other pressing matters to handle. What do you know about University Rare Books and Manuscripts?”
“I know that if Hewitt’s dead, I own it.”
“Then you better get over here,” he said. “I need you to identify a body.”
NINE
Scattering gravel, Martha punched the Mini Cooper and, like Danny Kimble minutes before her, ignored the stop sign under the railroad trestle. Speeding past the marina, she tried to prepare herself for a body stretched out on the floor of University Rare Books and Manuscripts. A glance at the gun in the passenger’s seat reminded her of Kimble’s deadly intent. Had he planned the same fate for her? Had Ralph Hargrove, Hewitt’s long-time manager, discovered Hewitt’s body when he arrived to open the store that morning? She shuddered at what she might find.
Along the way, she dialed Trammell’s number.
“Yeah,” he said. His voice still carried the timbre of sleep. When she had left the Ballard Gazette at three a.m., he was still working with the police to verify what files had been stolen from his desk and laptop. And Metcalf wasn’t about to let him leave without a good explanation of why he and MacAuliffe had ignored the “Do Not Enter” tape at Hewitt’s houseboat.
“You okay?” Martha performed a last-second turn into the Wallingford Center parking lot. No one pulled in behind her.
“Helluva headache,” he replied. “Like someone knocked me out cold last night.”
“You’ll live. Take some ibuprofen and drink lots of strong coffee.”
“You’re about as sweet as thorns on a rose.”
“I’m improving,” she said. “The last guy compared me to barbed wire—must be my winsome personality.”
“Yeah. You okay?”
“I’m alive,” she said, “which is more than can be said for someone at Hewitt’s bookstore.”
“The place over in the U District? Who? Hewitt?”
“I don’t know yet. Metcalf wants me to identify the body. I pray to God it isn’t Hewitt. If it is, that still doesn’t explain how his van ended up in Puget Sound.”
“Someone hiding evidence?”
“At a public boat ramp?” Martha said. “I don’t think so.”
“Maybe to keep us looking in the wrong direction while they got out of town.”
“Could be. If so, it worked,” Martha said. “There’s more. They didn’t all leave town. I had someone tailing me this morning. When I caught up with him, he claimed to be working for Metcalf and had a Seattle Police Department ID badge. I bought it hook, line, and sinker and let him go. Metcalf said he didn’t have anyone following me.”
“Maybe Metcalf’s lying.”
“Why would he?” Martha said, but wondered if Trammell might be right.
“Doesn’t want you to know that you’re still a suspect?”
“I have no doubt that he still considers me a prime suspect.” It suddenly occurred to Martha she could be driving to a crime scene to be arrested for Hewitt’s murder. “I just wanted to warn you to watch your back. These guys are after something that they haven’t found yet. Which means you’re in just as much danger as anyone.”
Metcalf and a forensics officer met her at the car. The forensics expert remained at the Mini Cooper to process and catalog the gun, promising to lock the car when finished.
“Detective Metcalf can get in easily enough if he needs to,” Martha said in parting.
They exchanged withering looks, but Metcalf didn’t say a word as he ushered her through the throng of people pressed against the police cordon outside the store.
University Rare Books and Manuscripts was tucked off University Avenue on a side street. A hint of despair pervaded everything in the area, including the bookstore, which was sandwiched between a tattoo parlor advertising body art and skin piercings and a Pho restaurant already pumping out the aroma of garlic and roasted chilies into the air. Counterculture radicals from the ’60s had been replaced by homeless panhandlers, a few students with backpacks, and leather-jacketed punks. The transition had started fifteen years ago when Martha had been a student at the U, and nothing had stopped the slide toward urban blight.
Inside, the store was dim and dusty, with more police officers mingling about than customers at a book signing. Rows of books lined unpainted shelves on three walls. All the requisite categories were there—except Romances, which Hewitt refused to sell. The store had a reputation for the best collection of science fiction and fantasy in the greater Seattle area and maybe on the West Coast. Martha noticed that the cabinets and the cash register were intact. A first edition of Asimov’s I, Robot looked undisturbed. The really valuable books were never displayed. She had no idea where they were kept. Their marketing and sales happened almost entirely on the web.
There was no sign of Ralph Hargrove. Bespectacled and pudgy, Ralph had been the driving force behind the store’s emphasis on sci-fi and fantasy, which in turn was the driving force behind its success. With bookstores closing all over town, University Rare Books and Manuscripts continued to turn a small profit for Hewitt, as she well knew from taking care of his finances during his illnesses. Month in and month out, Ralph deposited a steady stream of revenue into Hewitt’s business account, providing enough—with the Pho restaurant—to pay the mortgage and Hargrove’s salary, with a few dollars left over. Hewitt always joked that he kept the bookstore open to keep him in latte money.
A chill swept over Martha as she realized suddenly they wouldn’t need her to identify a body if Ralph were here. Not if the body was Hewitt. Oh, Ralph, not sweet Ralph. Shy and unassuming, he may have been the gentlest man she ever met. God, let it be a stranger.
Metcalf led her toward the office at the rear of the store, where the flash of a camera exploded like lightening. It was where Hewitt had worked on the “Manuscripts” part of the store’s name. A closer look revealed a foot protruding into the doorway. She braced herself, but Metcalf made no attempt to bring her to the door.
His hands worked something—keys or loose change—in the pockets of a well-cut, dark gray suit designed more for the downtown business world than a University District crime scene. His appearance gave no indication that he had been working another crime scene in Ballard a mere few hours before.
“Harry,” Metcalf called out. A burly man approached. Wild dark hair touched the shoulders of a faded Carhartt jacket, its shoulders soaked with rain. Except for penetrating brown eyes, his face was hidden behind a bushy black beard. Next to the dapper Metcalf, he looked like a logger from the Olympic forests.
“Detective Harry Callison, Homicide,” Metcalf offered by way of introduction. “We’re partners on this investigation now. Harry, this is Martha Whitaker, the woman I mentioned to you.”
“Ma’am,” Callison said, nodding. “I need you to identify our victim, if you can.”
A skinny redheaded woman stepped over the motionless foot, a camera slung over her shoulder. “All yours, Detective,” she said. “But try not to touch anything. We may have a partial fingerprint.”
“Enough to get an ID?” Callison asked.
“Not sure yet.”
Callison turned to Martha, his voice surprisingly gentle. “I have to warn you—this is going to be gruesome. You’ve probably never seen anything like it before. Concentrate on his face, stay no longer than you absolutely have to.”
Her mouth went dry. He took her elbow and guided her toward the body.
Martha froze, unable to bring her eyes to the victim’s face. Fear hadn’t touched her last night when she had been shot at. Now, she couldn’t stop shaking. “Good God,” she murmured, looking anywhere but down.
It was Hewitt’s houseboat all over again. Every drawer pulled out, file cabinet emptied onto the floor, but instead of papers, clothes were tossed around the room. A picture frame had been pulled apart, the backing torn off; stuffing ripped out of a futon covered everything like a foamy layer of snow. The sweet, sickening smell of blood mingled with the stale odor of a locker room.
At Callison’s insistence, she lowered her eyes at what she didn’t want to see—a body stretched out on the floor. A mutilated corpse. When she finally brought herself to look at the face, she realized it was going to get worse. A police officer knelt beside the body, his gloved fingers touching the elastic band of the men’s underwear that had been pulled over the victim’s face. They had once been white, now they were red fading to brown from dried blood. At a nod from Callison, the officer rolled back the underwear. Martha gagged at the sight of a penis sticking out of Ralph Hargrove’s mouth.
She turned and ran.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, she had washed her face and rinsed the vomit from her mouth. Her stomach still churned, but she thought she could control it. Metcalf stood waiting.
“It’s Ralph Hargrove,” she said.
“He worked here?” Metcalf asked.
Martha just nodded.
“Looks like he lived there, in the back room.”
She spoke in a strained whisper. “Hewitt’s, it used to be Hewitt’s office. I haven’t been here in a while. Maybe two, three years.” She gagged again. “Oh, God.”
“Okay, steady. Breathe deep, look around.” Metcalf’s voice was quiet and calm. “When did you last speak with Mr. Hargrove?”
“Yesterday morning.” She tried to focus, to blot out the image of the castrated Hargrove. Her stomach lurched again. She tilted her head back and took another deep breath. Oh God, why Ralph? And why mutilate him? Numb and trembling, she wrapped her arms around her body to stop the shaking. “After Hewitt’s van was pulled from the water, I called Ralph. He hadn’t seen Hewitt in a couple of weeks. They had lunch. They didn’t even talk business. He said Hewitt was fine. It fact, he said Hewitt seemed downright groovy.”
“Groovy?”
“That’s what he said. Ralph liked those old-fashioned words.”
“Groovy. Hardly how you’d describe a frightened man.”
“Something must have changed. Don’t you get it? Something changed,” Martha snapped. “Did you find a safe?”
Out of the Cold Dark Sea Page 9
